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I’m allergic to moving… and timely thoughts

September 8, 2010

Hard, autumn rain is falling, and my incessant sneezing matches its rhythm. Air pressure changes have always brought this about, and the barometer has dropped dramatically. I suspect also the presence of a toxic allergen in the recycled cardboard boxes stacked against most of our walls. It has been my universal experience that so-called green products are highly toxic. I have no explanation for my elevated pulse rate, except that a resting pulse probably should not be presumed to be measured in a restless person.

The last contingency on which the sale of our house hinges remains in suspended motion, if in fact it is motile at all. The lender has not yet received the appraiser’s report, though the appraiser was sure she would have her report to the lender within 48 hours, which would have meant last Friday. This is but one more time that I have noticed that most people do not reckon time as I do. The United States atomic clock in Denver, which measures the rate of perishing of countless cesium protons, is, in my mind, the only objective way of measuring time among civilized people. Your cell phone is calibrated to the atomic clock. Traditional calendars are also acceptable for long-term time keeping. But many people simply improvise and come up with their own ways of dealing with time, most of which are subterfuges. I suspect that people who are unable to deal objectively with time are simply attempting to deny its passing, and ultimately, their own mortality. So punctuality or lack thereof is, as is everything else, a spiritual issue, disciplined or not by one’s theology or lack thereof. But I realize that this does nothing to change anyone else’s opinion; nor does it enable me to do anything about any of it.

During increasingly frequent moments, I rest assured of a good outcome for the things of this life, whatever it is and whenever it is delivered — and I don’t even spend too much time dwelling on the fate of all the abandoned neutrons, former companions to all those dead cesium protons, as they hurtle through space, doubtless securing refuge in a black hole for the long night ahead.


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